


Waste basket

by Subtle_Shenanigans



Category: Books - Fandom, Cartoons - Fandom, Mutil, Original Works, Redwall, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: AUs, Aliens, Angst, Cats, Creatures, Drabbles, Fluff, Forgotten ideas, Friendship, Gen, Hurt, Incoherent, Notes, Pain, YO KITKAT CAN I DO THE PLATONIC HANAHAKI THING, abandoned ideas, aus of aus, half-finished, inciherenf ramblings, late night writes, minor self-inserts (vents???), possibly French, possibly body horror, shape-shifting, uas, violenve
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2019-08-14 00:16:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 4,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16482467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Subtle_Shenanigans/pseuds/Subtle_Shenanigans
Summary: Sometimes, we scribble things out, crumple them up, and throw them in the waste basket by our desk.And other times, we pull that paper right out, smooth out the wrinkles, and frown in confusion.This time, I’ll just post them here, for your confusion.This is a collection of scrabbles that will range from unfinished, to having notes halfway through.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I have been given a go ahead, so here’s some stuff that I’d normally throw out, or that is never finished from the development stage in my mind.
> 
> Now here’s the barebones of my concept for Sabotage.

**S ~~a~~ b ~~o~~ t ~~a~~ g ~~e~~**

 

cheesy darker version of my author self, Sublte Shenanigans. I score the vowels in her name. She speaks ((like this)), always in double parenthesis (which I also do for my notes when I’m in the middle of a fic, funnily enough.)

 

Don't have too much of a concept for her - her eyes are silver (mine are blue-gray) and she’s a darker coloration of me (but not edgy filter kind; like, there’s actual colors they’re just. . .dark saturations of the same colors??? I dunno.

 

likes to cause chaos, discomfort, and “hecking concerns”. Fairly formal and straight-forward. 

Is only awake/physical/there when I’m asleep/dreaming.

 

probably associated with blues and grays.

 

just a silly idea I’ll use occasionally.


	2. Captive Audience/Markiplier crossover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back from the “Captive Audience” Video Mark did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usually I “write” in my mind (it’s more like movies), and the either write notes or let the words flow.

     He sighs, pressing his head against the wall.

     His neighbor - a sweet girl, really; left behind a husband getting over a gambling problem, as well as a guinea pig - wasn’t in today. She was probably out recording.

    He cringed at the thought, the burned flesh of his arm pulling at the movement. 

     Why did today have to be a cooking segment, of all things? With hot oil, too, of course.

     Sometimes he just wished-

     Mark clenched his fists.

    No, Amy and Chica were waiting. Tyler, and Ethan, Bob, Wade, Jack - all of his friends, they were out there, waiting for him.

    It had only been three months since he disappeared. He was sure they were still looking for him.

 

((maybe flashback or insert about the recording? Definitely do one of a different day. Same basic setup as the game, but somehow the vehemence Of The life and death choice towards the end is different. 

 

Mentions of escape; getting caught. Mind games. Psychological meh.))

 

 

 


	3. TPWCH Chapter planning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is literally my notes for the next two chapters. Thought you guys may be interested.
> 
> Spoilers for the next two chapters of _This Place We Call Home_!!!

((Do a chapter where an alien of higher rank (female) tries to court Phil. Knocks on door, tries to give him a trinket gift she saw him eying at a farmers market (porcelain pig??). Maybe in the LA arc??

Also; Ethan and Tyler introduction??? Dude??? Ethan's species thrive off of cold weather and water (especially snow). Maybe called Kræhncs? And Tyler knows because he needed an Editor for his job and invited him out after an online interview and they became friends. Tyler just never told Mark and then Mark concedes that he never told Tyler. Ethan in exasperation asks if they're all aliens, pointing to Phil (since others introduced themselves), and he shrugs.))


	4. Prompt: Platonic Hanahaki (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings for descriptive instances of coughing and vomiting**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE: This turned out way longer than I expected even with unfinished notes, so it’ll be two parts.
> 
> Sorry for being dead so long, lol. We’re all good now; fires are taken care of near me.  
> —————-/////—————-
> 
> So Kitkatzgr8 did an awesome Hanahaki chapter for Goretober (it hurts; y’all should read it) and we got into a discussion about a platonic Hanahaki concept. 
> 
> Basically, when you really want to reach out and become friends with someone but you can’t for whatever reason, instead of harboring romantic feelings for someone, and then developing (platonic) Hanahaki.
> 
> This’ll take me a few days - I’m contemplating which flower(s) to use. So I’m starting this on the Eighth but we’ll see what happens. I may all leave notes in double parenthesis (()) since I’m busy on and off and probably can’t get a whole shebang out.
> 
> AU of my original characters, Zero and Jake. They still have their abilities in this universe, but things go down differently where Jake attends her Highschool. He is (technically) 15 and she is about 17.

    Jake slipped his Algebra Two textbook back into his locker, bright eyes flickering to watch her pass by.

    His chest felt tight and he dropped his eyes before she could catch his gaze.

    After she passed, after students began to disperse to their next classes, he finally pulled his eyes away from his locker, closing it and giving the combination lock a twist. Hefting his orange backpack on his shoulder, he made his way to English class, hoping he wouldn’t be late again.

* * *

 

    Her name was Zero.

     It wasn’t really, but Jake didn’t have the drive to ask. It was the nickname she preferred her teachers call her, and she wasn’t close enough with any other students for them to regularly call her name.

    Plus, Jake being almost two years “younger” than her meant he could only be in so many of her classes (Advanced Literature, Foreign Language, and Beginner Arts.)

 

    ((Make up some diddly squat that he convinced/forged his way into the school, and his test placements put him in wonky places; maybe work in a joke that he writes in cursive, not chicken scratch??))

 

    Honestly, Jake hadn’t even _wanted_ to go to school - but he was falling behind, again, and the only way he would survive in this ‘modern’ world was by updating his education, both academically and socially.

    The latter part being harder as it was two steps more than difficult to make friends when you were the _new_ _kid_.

    Jake swore, social conventions got more ridiculous by the decade.

    (At least his language class was easy; he honestly didn’t even bother trying to remember what he was taking - he thinks maybe it’s German or something? - but he seems to pick it up easy enough. Probably from the fact that he’s been traveling around a couple hundred years and he’s fairly certain his original language isn’t even English.)

     He keeps glancing up from his desk during Ad Lit, avian habits of moving his head rather than just his eyes a hard habit to break. She’s maybe three down from the front, a row over from him. He’s about two more seats behind.

    He really wished he could just gather the courage to _talk_ to her. Maybe a ‘hello’? On the few occasions where she conversed with him, he didn’t have too much difficulty talking back. It was _him_ trying to reach out and forge a friendship that was the problem.

     “. . .and that’s why, we can see here, that this was an allusion to. . .? Jake? Can you answer that for us?”

     Jake snaps his eyes to the teacher (he wishes he could remember her name, but the fog that permeates his brain has dissolved them like mist.)

    “I’m sorry, uh, what was the question?” He asks sheepishly. His face feels hot and he resists the embarrassed sqwuack residing in his throat.

    There’s a spattering of snickering, as the teacher sighs and re-asks her “ditzy” student the question.

    But Zero doesn’t laugh at him.

* * *

 

    It’s later in his Foreign Language class ( _oh yeah, Romanian_ ) that he gets a tickling itch in his throat. He swallows a few times, fighting the urge to cough.

    After maybe three minutes, it becomes unbearable; his eyes water and his throat spasms. He’s never been more glad that his teacher is laid-back, because he doesn’t even look up when Jake hurriedly grabs the hall pass and darts out of the room, towards the bathrooms.

    There’s a set of water fountains right outside of it; he stops by it and absolutely _hacks_ out coughs, trying to dispel the irritating itchy sensation clawing at his throat. He’s wheezing in between, seeing black flashes, and eventually spits out a wad of phlegm.

    Except. . .it doesn’t really look like mucus, Jake notes as he tries to catch his breath. It looks like he coughed something up, faded a color paler than peach, and folded.

    With a furrowed brow he gives a shrug, being sure to get a generous drink from the water fountain. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and goes back to class without a further thought.

   Though there is, of course, a lingering sense of curious dread.

* * *

 

     It’s in Beginning Art, about three days later, that Jake’s throat begins to itch again.

    His chest had been heavy the last few days - he was almost afraid that he was getting bronchitis, with where the tightness was. But seemed to ease when he left school to go back to his temporary home. And while it flared up again, it only really flared up at really specific times.

    Maybe he was developing anxiety? Tightness of chest was one of the possible symptoms, wasn’t it?

    But, then again, he didn’t notice anything else that would indicate it. And, well, if he did notice anything else, than he could always go to the school counselor, right?

     Best to just keep an eye on it.

     “Now, for this unit, we will be practicing with negative space, and lighting,” Missus I-Cannot-Recall said. Maybe he should call her Missus Paint? “I have assigned you each with a partner, based on who has a strength out of these techniques.” In that case, then he also has Mister Romanian, Miss Tallahassee (his English teacher had such a strong accent), Mister Boom- “- with Rupert,  Eloise is with Michael, and lastly Zero is with Jake.” 

     Jake’s eyes widened as his brain caught up, and he felt a swell of excitement and worry. He glanced over at his partner to be. She stared down at her desk but glanced from under her hair at him, and he gave her a smile.

    He was pretty sure he caught her smile back.

    Missus Paint continued. “For each pair, I have listed you in order of your strengths: Lighting and Negative space. So in this case, you will be working on the opposite parts, collaborating to make a piece. Understood?”

    There was a chorus of voices and the teacher nodded. “Good. You all have until the ninth of next month to complete it. You may all disperse to talk with your partners for the,” she glanced at the clock, “remaining eight minutes.”

    There was a clatter of scooting chairs and footsteps, as friends who were lucky enough to be partnered together hurried to chat about things _other_ than the project. The rest, unfamiliar or previous unacquainted, took their time to get together, spitballing ideas.

     Jake had gotten up just as Zero had, both standing awkwardly and unsure of _who_ was to go _where_. After a minute, Jake shrugged and smiled, going halfway and sitting down. She huffed, and joined him.

    “I can already see that we’ll make an amazing project,” she quipped, though it was by no means unkind.

    The burning in his throat seemed to intensify, and he swallowed it down, giving a light, “yeah.”

     Zero seemed confused by his quiet response, but didn’t ask. They managed to get together a rough idea for their project, deciding that they would stay after school over the course of . . .well, however long they needed until the project was due. (Jake couldn’t remember the month much less what day it was today.)

* * *

 

   Everything was going fine until Jake woke up in the middle of the night, choking and unable to breath.

    He rolled off his bed, hitting the floor. He wanted to claw his throat open, because it burned so bad, itching. He coughed, boarderline retching, and hitting his chest in hopes to dislodge whatever was clogging up his bronchial tubes. He could barely see, his salt lamp was on low, and his eyes watering, but he felt something flutter heavily out of his mouth. 

    It took a good stretch of minutes for him to calm down. His heart was beating furiously, still, and his throat felt raw from coughing, but whatever had clogged his airway seemed to be out.

    He sat up, back against his bed frame. Quietly stared at the ceiling. After a moment, he got up, wobbly, to grab his phone and turn on the flashlight.

     That. . .that couldn’t be right.

    Illumination filled his room so that he could clearly see what had been causing him such a problem. Soft, almost a peachy pink, and one that was yellowy-orange with stripes. 

     . . .when the hell had he swallowed a pair of flower petals?

     He took a picture, puzzled over the bizarreness of it, but decided to just go back to sleep for now. After all, he was fine, and there wasn’t much he could do about it tonight.

* * *

  The incident didn’t happen again, until a few days later. Jake and Zero had been progressing well on their project, but their interactions stopped there. She was as quiet and self-contained in class as ever, and Jake never had the nerve to reach out farther.

    It seemed that whenever he thought about Zero, or when he was around her, his throat began acting up. Every failed attempt to just initiate conversation left his chest heavy, and feeling like he had swallowed thorns.

    And then he had had a coughing fit during his math class, heaving tacking coughs from his chest in a sudden flurry. Jake has gotten up, shoving his chair back with a squeal. Luckily, Mister Algebra Two hadn’t said anything against his taking the hall pass and rushing off to the bathroom.

    He rushed into a stall, locking it behind him with a slam, and heaved over the toilet, his vision fuzzing darkly and pale white spots dancing across it. There was that acrid, metallic ting of bile and blood rising, and he fought off a gag - better to let himself vomit than to fight it, right?

     Except that whatever was in his chest came up uncomfortably; wrong, all wrong, soft and obtrusive. He eventually coughed up _something_ , dry-heaving while his body shuddered from the action.

     When Jake had calmed down enough, he wiped his mouth off, and further wiped his spitty wrist onto his jeans. He was still breathing heavily. 

    He didn’t really want to look, but he just knew he had to.

    Jake felt a mixture of dread and bewilderment at what he found.

    Floating in the water, some saliva-covered and some seemingly dry, were a smattering of flower petals like the two different colored ones he had coughed up before, along with a deeper yellow colored kind.

    He sat there a long time. Long enough that the bell had rung, and he could hear the chatter of a multitude of students moving through the halls. Then the bell rang again.

    Sometime after the next class had started, Jake finally got up, flushing the toilet with trembling hands.

    As he made his way to his next class, his chest grew tighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alstroemeria is one of the first flowers that popped up when I looked up flowers for friendship, so *shrug*
> 
> I dunno, they’re pretty. I was going to low-key do dandelions (both yellow and dried ‘wishing Flowers’) but eh.
> 
> QOTP: What’s your favourite flower? (Either this is a really good or really bad question after this XD.)
> 
> My A: Alyssum! Specifically the white variety. Daffodils are probably a close second.


	5. Platonic Hanahaki (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alstroemeria is the flower of friendship. Well, one of them anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol, so I have to get my thoughts all organized for this one (there may be left over notes/unfulfilled parts like the last chapter), since it’s been a bit. I’ve decided to make this a three parter, RIP.
> 
> EDIT: Hey guys, I’m really sick with the flu (no throwing up but I was tremoring last night) so I apologize if this gets sloppy towards the end. I just really want to write and told myself to take things one at a time, so I wanted to finish this first. I’ll get over it - hope you all are okay and trying to stay healthy!!!
> 
> *This is not from the official Wikipedia page. I’m randomly typing out what I recall when I looked up the flowers back during part 1.

    Hanahaki Disease.

    _Japanese in origin; multiple unconfirmed cases; folk legend; unrequited love-_

    Jake held the phone, hand trembling slightly, as he looked at it in confusion.

    It was Japanese, so Jake wasn’t surprised that he had never heard of it. Of all the places he hadn’t gone to, Asian countries and the Middle East were among them. Furthest he got was somewhere in Russia, but then- he got turned around in the snow or something? It was quite a long time ago.

    And unrequited Love? That was the biggest discrepancy. Because Jake knew he wasn’t in love. He didn’t want to kiss her or anything romantic like that - he wanted to joke with her, and laugh, chatting and having fun.

 

((would have been good to add in why he was so quick to figure out it’s Zero.))

 

    But . . .

_the disease seems to vary in that only certain types of flowers will grow. There is some debate on whether the symbolic meaning of the flowers has any bearing on the matter. Finding the reason, and, a way to overcome Hanahaki is vitally important, as the rapid growth-rate eventually chokes out the host, according to Legend. The only even stated cures is confession of feelings, or surgical removal of flowers taking with it the feelings of the host._

_Today, it is depicted in a lot of art in western culture, through the popularization of manga and anime-_

 

    Jake sat back, huffing. The phone was left hanging lightly in his grasp. He closed his eyes.

    Okay, so the flower-meanings were important. There’s a chance that it doesn’t have to be romantic love, right? After all, Greek has varying names for different types of love. And legends tend to distort and warp over the years ( _don’t even get him_ started _on the whole Loch Ness thing. Those were wild years in Scotland.)_

    Jake opened his eyes and sat up, trying to ignore the uncomfortable, heavy feeling in his chest.

    One step at a time, he told himself. Best to start with figuring out what kind of flower he was coughing up.

* * *

 

     Turns out it was easier said than done.

    As useful as Google could be, it also was a huge mishmash of information that made searching for something specific that one didn’t know the name of an absolute chore.

    He even tried searching with the image feature, but the flowers that came up didn’t have the right shaped petals.

    After almost three hours of frustration he gave up. Maybe he could ask a teacher or librarian about the petals or something.

    He tried to stifle a cough.

    After failing that, he looked down at his hand, covered in petals and blood.

* * *

 

    “Oh! I didn’t know you liked alstroemerias.” 

    Jake looked up in surprise at one of his classmates. It was a girl his age, with rich ginger hair and dark blue eyes. He followed her gaze downwards to where he had been drawing the petals, over and over, absentmindedly.

    _This is what I get for zoning out_ , he thought wryly.

    Then, it registered.

     “You. . .know what kind these are?”

    She nodded eagerly. “Oh, yes! My dad’s a florist. I’ve been helping him with arrangements and studying flowers since I was seven. Lost interest a while back though - but I remember when we got a set of them. They’re also called, Inca Lilies? I think?” She tapped her chin, looking skyward.

    “. . .Do you know anything about their symbolism?” Jake ventures.

     She shook her head. “Nah, started losing interest around then. I can tell you about roses, daffodils, and nasturtium, but that’s all I can remember.” She pauses suddenly. “Why the interest.”

    Jake shrugs. “Uh, art project. Thought about adding something symbolic in it, and since these have been on my mind.”

    The girl seems to accept that. “Well, you can always do a quick Google search. Anyways, I better find Salone to finish up our assignment before Mister Boum ends the period.”

_Wait._

_His science teacher’s name actually_ was  _Mister Boom???_

   “No problem. Uh, thanks. . .”

    She rolled her eyes. “Stacy. I guess it is true that you can’t remember anyone’s name,” she muttered, leaving.

     Although he was flushing furiously at the mishap, he was glad to be a step closer to figuring this out.

* * *

 

    Now with a more precise keyword, he tapped out _Alstroemeria symbolic_ meaning and hit ‘ _Search_ ’.

    He hit Wikipedia* first, scrolling down and opening the ‘ _meaning_ ’ tag. Yellow-green eyes taking in the words.

 

_. . .typically denote friendship. Color has some bearing, and typically the lighter, more yellow-toned colors would be sent or used in an arrangement for friendship._

    Jake breathes out slowly.

_friendship._

   He had Hanahaki. . .because he wanted Zero to be his _friend_?

    It almost seemed ridiculous - though no more ridiculous than this whole Hanahaki buissness. And it did give him relief. He knew that he wasn’t feeling a romantic pull. Jake was certainly mesmerized by her, but it wasn’t an attraction.

   And Hanahaki seemed rare - borderline fictional in society, so it makes sense that if it’s typically unrequited love, there’s little to no cases of it being romantic.

     But, in this case, the question stood:

    What to do?

    Jake was a mess at best when it came to interacting with his classmates, and downright awkward around Zero. The only way to stop the disease was to make the leap and become friends with her, right?

    Unless he wanted to make himself stop feeling, apparently.

    And he would really rather not do that.

    His phone buzzed.

    He pressed the home button, and saw the screen light up. His chest seized violently when he saw the text.

     **Zero**

_4:35pm_

_Yo, any chance you could meet me somewhere to do the project today? Miss Anthea wants me to make up a test tmmrw._

 

   His chest convulsed.

   But. . .

**Jake**

_4:37pm_

_Sure! Just let me know where you wanna meet up :D_

His chest loosened suddenly.

 

**Zero**

_4:41pm_

_How about Della’s? I’m hungry and we can work on it on the patio._

  . . .he was ready to take the plunge.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For your lols: https://youtu.be/qaV22y7sbuI (Subnautica tends to glitch when I play it. First Norman, now the Sandsharks.)
> 
> Also, after much debilitation, I’ve decided to make a Tumblr. Here’s the actual page for my fanfiction account if y’all would like to see it! https://subtle-shenanigans-fanfiction.tumblr.com/post/181655932352/hi


	6. Unease (Concept/notes/unfinished)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the “Burglary” game that Mark played in his three scary games video today.

((Could be Mark or a unspecified male character))

 

    The door opens, almost silently, and he enters another room.

    The white lights and sterile walls glare back. A navy couch against the left wall, a tv in the upper corner on the right, hanging.

     There’s one, potted plant that he isn’t sure is real or not - the waxy leaves are deceptive. It sits on a nightstand next to the couch.

    He bites his lip, frustrated. 

    It’s one of the five rooms he’s come across - the living room (this one), the hallway, the waiting room (the same as the living room but with brown chairs with cushioned seats), the kitchen (which has an empty fridge), and the bathroom (the tap doesn’t seem to work). 

    One of the only five rooms since he entered this building - the rooms turning and looping endlessly on one another. Not a single window, and the clock on the wall ticks but never moves.

    He sighs, knowing going backwards is pointless. The only choice is to press on.

* * *

 

((come up with legitimate reason why he’s there.))

* * *

 

    He opens the door.

    Bites back a scream and tastes blood where he ripped into his cheek.

    It’s the living room again. 

    Like every room, the light is unchanging. There’s no smell. No hum of electricity in the walls. He’s tested the tv before, and finds there’s no wires pooling out of it to go through the wall.

    _Gosh dammit._

* * *

     He hasn’t been hungry or thirsty since he’s been here, and he’s knows it has to have been an two hours at least. Not that there’s anything to eat or drink if there were.

    He hasn’t even had to use the bathroom in awhile. The bathroom itself just becomes an indicator of a dead end, since it has no use.

* * *

 

    Physically, he’s fine; but his mind is buzzing and beyond exhaustion.

   The next time he opens to find the living room, his eyes wearily draw to the navy couch.

    He plops on it and, after a time, falls asleep.

* * *

 

    He wakes up and the world is as unchanged as he remembers.

    White lights. Sterile walls. Carpet beneath his feet.

   His hand trembling faintly, he reaches to feel the plants glossy leaves. At first it feels cool, smooth-

 

             but his nails bite into it and he can distinctly tell it’s wax over plastic.

    He leaves the room behind, ceramic shattered across the floor and a score in the wall, the plant torn to shreds.

* * *

 

     The next time he finds the living room, there’s no plant.

* * *

 

    Whenever he sleeps, he does not dream.

* * *

 

        ((Come up with a conclusion))

 


	7. Creaking (unfinished)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just an unfinished Jack and Anti piece.

    In the dimness of his room, his clock reads 00:00.

    It had glitched out, earlier, and stopped there. He had woken up, heart racing.

 

 

   He can’t move; his body is frozen in place except for his chest, which moves while he’s breathing. Even his eyes are stuck open. 

    The first thing they lock on to is the clock.

     Maybe two minutes, maybe ten, after the clock has stopped, the screaming starts.

    

     It’s agonizing, wailing; an unholy screech of pain and terror. He’s shaking by this point - no, trembling. He can’t move his eyes from the mocking clock. Can’t get up from his bed.

    Suddenly, it falls silent.

    He strains his ears but hears nothing except for the blood pulsing throughout his body.

    It’s silent. Disarmingly so.

    . . .until there’s the faint tell-tale creak of someone’s weight on floorboards.

    They’re soft. Deliberate. 


	8. Nomu (BNHA)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When you have things to work on but freaking theories give you ideas.
> 
> Possible spoilers for recent chapters in the Boku No Hero Academia manga.

     It’s almost not funny anymore. Okay, maybe a little funny.

    Maybe the others were on to something when they joked about him having a danger-attracting quirk.

    There’s a Nomu ravaging the city; it’s taken down quite a few officers already, though it hasn’t really killed anyone yet, at least. It seems to be an early stage one that escaped; they’ve only found one quirk it’s displayed.

    Izuku had only seen it briefly on the news, when he’d been scrolling on his phone. He hasn’t payed any attention to what city it was in, since he was focused on double-checking his shopping list.

    And then there’s shouting and screaming, and the hero in him drops everything, racing towards the danger.

    And the freaking Nomu is _there_ ; on all fours, with thin, elongated limbs, the front ones arching up and he sees flaps of skin almost like wings. He blanches, hoping it can only glide, not fly.

    The head is like the first one’s; a bird beak jutting forward but this is as though someone’s mouth had been pinched accordingly. Unlike the previous one, though, this one has patches of fur on it, including its head, with no brain showing.

    Izuku is terrified at the sight.

     But even with his mouth dry, and shuddering at the core, he won’t leave people in danger.

    _He can’t._

    So he’s rushing forwards, either to grab someone and drag them away or distract the Nomu. There’s a shout, a cry of some sort - maybe a warning, or fear for his safety, but-

    -but it as lost as the Nomu’s eyes meet his; and he is falling, falling, gravity pulling him down and sucking him in - because that look is so _achingly_ familiar, and on his knees he can’t help but cry at the sight of it (who knows when he had started) and it’s coming towards him, it’s steps like a person’s in disbelief-

    And the heroes on sevens are terrified, as are the police, because they know the thing’s quirk. So when it merely stumbles to Deku, and collapses it’s ugly head into his chest, Izuku in turn wrapping his arms around it’s neck to grab at the tattered mane, they hold their breath in perplexity.

    Izuku is wailing now, it’s a long-drawn sobs of something lost being found and lost yet again.

    He doesn’t know why he is so sad, so happy, so confused, nor does the Nomu understand on a base level why it is now better, not whole, but no longer exactly mindless.

 

 

     Midoriya Izuku had a quirk. It was stolen as a child, though he did not know it.

    An unfinished Nomu, gifted his quirk, had escaped, and that quirk recognized its original host.

    . . .maybe what Izuku had wasn’t a curse after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is completely unfinished but it’s just a concept. Basically, Izuku had a quirk that until I can come up with a better name is called ‘Soul Attraction.’ His mother can attract small objects to her + his father can breathe fire (which he has to pull out of himself) = so Izuku could pull something from someone when he attracted their attention (specifically eye contact). What that means is that he can basically call up your “soul” (your base emotions) to the forefront, sorta. I dunno I may explore more with him actually having this quirk.
> 
> The Nomu is as it is; the perso it was amalgamated from us dead, with no hope of returning in memories or anything. But Nomu are still alive to a degree, so I guess you could sorta see it as having some base personality springing from its quirk’s Original Host??? Still working things out.
> 
> But yeah this Nomu would eventually become docile and Izuku could command it. He gets very attached even though it is not a pretty creature.


	10. Astral wolf - late night write

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Saw an image in my head while feeling it so I wrote it I guess lol.
> 
> Probably a wolf? Definitely a predator animal.

There are claws and teeth

Setting and sink in to tear-    to pull-

 

The stars are set in fur, hanging, sunk in, gripping tighter until white-hot blue pools out and the velvet nothing is spilling into a sunken pool of empty-

 

Glowing eyes set by a snarl and framed by instinct because stars set in fur and fangs set in flesh become the dripping of everything into nothing;

 

This is too much turned to numbness.


	11. Waiting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look I’ve been in weird moods lately so have some weird funk I guess.
> 
> I’m hoping to update TPWCH (the Area 51 chapter) and then either Gilded Amethyst, or that last Platonic!Hanahaki chapter finally lol.
> 
> It’s almost midnight :/

     If in the dark I see, they can see; white-washed silver reflecting almost perfectly trapped in small circles. There is  ~~two~~   ~~three~~   _ **one-**_

one set of eyes staring back and meeting your gaze and cold washes over you. Your breath clouds when you huff out, though your flashlight is pointed to the ground you see it perfectly. The eyes do not waver.

        It is not winter.

                     Is it night? No; surely, that you remember clear, clean-cut.

it is midnight and you are in the garage, though the why of it escapes you, dissipates. The creature stares and doesn’t move. The cold seizes with frozen claws into your lungs, fingers clasping between intricately places ribs.

 

there are etchings and they are not carvings; stories hidden beneath flesh that shall not be peeled back, for it is mine and yours and theirs, and unsuitable for reading

 

     When your light goes out, so do the eyes. There is nothing left for them to reflect; and the frigid breeze sweeps through and you know that the garage is empty, devoid of life.

     You stand in the dark.


End file.
